Free Find Me in Manhattan (Finding #3) by Shealy James Page A

and shrugged on her jacket to cover what she knew I saw.
    “Sergeant Pearson, please have a seat,” she said with an edge to her voice and a sweet twang I’d become accustomed to while stationed at Fort Bragg. Hers wasn’t as pronounced as most, but something about it made her seem sweet and fragile.
    Like a good soldier, I followed her directive and took a seat in a vinyl covered chair that I was sure had been there since before I was born. I watched her sit down gracefully. She set up her tablet then opened a file and flipped through several pages. I felt myself getting anxious waiting for her to talk, so I started for her. “So, how’s this work, Miss Grant? You ask questions about my life and then recommend more therapy?”
    She looked up like she had forgotten I was there. “Oh, gosh. Please call me Sarah. I’m sorry if I seem unorganized. My day was just interrupted, and it threw me off my game.” She flipped a few more pages then let out a breath. “There. Okay, I’m ready. I’ll ask you questions today, and I hope you respond openly and honestly, but I’m not referring you to more therapy. The goal of this study is to gauge the long- term effects of the therapy in which you’ve already participated.”
    “All right,” I responded waiting for her to start grilling me. I knew this was about to get personal, and sweet Sarah was going to be busy deciding if I was still out of my mind or not. Effectively squashing all of my fantasies about laying her across the gray metal desk.
    “If you don’t mind me asking though, do you think you need more therapy?”
    She was already judging me. Great. For some reason, her question pissed me off more than Phil did when he talked me into this crap. “Is that part of the interview?”
    “Well, no, but I was-”
    “Then let’s just stick to the interview questions,” I interrupted her.
    Her big blue eyes widened in shock, and I almost laughed until she started apologizing. “I’m so sorry. You just said…I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “Let’s get started. I’m going to record our discussion, so I can transcribe the data later. Anything you share is confidential, and I won’t use your name during the interview.”
    “All right.”
    “Ready?” She looked at me with an expression in her eyes that spoke to me. If I wasn’t mistaken, she was afraid. While it had been years since I had paid attention to reading others’ facial expressions, there was one that never left my mind—fear—and I saw it all over sweet Sarah’s face.
    “Let’s start with your daily life. Using the scale very dissatisfied, moderately dissatisfied, slightly dissatisfied, slightly satisfied, moderately satisfied, or very satisfied, how would you rate your satisfaction with…”
    And thus began the interview. She asked about everything from alcohol and drug use to my family and friends to my faith in God. Sarah was checking off my answers, listening to me elaborate when she prompted, then rattling off the next question without missing a beat. It wasn’t until the sex question that I saw any kind of rise out of her.
    “How would you rate your satisfaction with your sex life?” she asked with her head down.
    “With the actual sex? Very satisfied,” I told her honestly.
    Her head popped up. “You didn’t indicate you were in a relationship when I asked about a wife or a girlfriend.”
    “I don’t have a wife or a girlfriend. I have a lot of…”
    “Acquaintances,” she finished for me.
    “Sure. That’s what we’ll call them.” I knew I was grinning like a loon, but when the professional façade cracked, I saw a side she intended to keep locked up. Sweet Sarah was intrigued. I caught the flare of her eyes and watched her wet her lips with that pink tongue. She was imagining what it would be like to be one of my…acquaintances.
    For the next several questions, Sarah’s cheeks kept a hint of pink on them. She was either embarrassed or turned on. I was going with